‘Cause I’ve Cried A River Over You

Written Jan. 25th

I have found myself reading a lot recently. It is one of the few ways I have to interact in my own language. The other of course is watching the first 6 episodes of 30Rock over and over again (thanks Hilary). And, I’ve been reading widely. It’s strange to suddenly have the freedom to pick up a book without also picking up a highlighter and scribbling down the publishing information in APLA or Chicago format.

It’s hard too, though because with freedom comes choice. Do I like fiction or non-fiction? Contemporary or historical? I have never read all of War and Peace; should I? What about James Joyce? Do I even want to read great literature at all or shall I read dime store romances and legal thrillers? These are the questions that raced through my mind at the Peace Corps ‘library’ which is a collection of books left behind by 16 years of volunteers. It is ramshackle, but there isn’t exactly are Barnes & Noble with a Starbucks around the corner.

I took with me a plethora of books when I came to Mary in December, although it doesn’t seem to be enough. They run the gamut from biographies of former slaves to a history of the meter to novels of the Indian community in Trinidad. Surprisingly, I have found that some of these books have a great deal in common. If I were in an English class, I would write papers on the human condition—its frailty, its ambition, its adaptability, it’s endurance, and its persistence. If I were in a politics class I would write about immigrants, movement, and assimilation in the making of states. But, I am not in those classes anymore, so instead I will write about these books and my life in Turkmenistan.

About a week ago (by the time I actually get around to posting this; it happened yesterday or the day before at the time of this writing), the President of Turkmenistan declared some sort of emergency in the Lebap region of Turkmenistan. This is the welyat or district to the East which has a really long border with Uzbekistan largely formed by the Ama Dariya river.

This winter has been the coldest since 1969, or so I have been told by old men in my village. I actually don’t know if that’s true, but it is freaking cold right now. Because it is cold, the Ama Dariya River has frozen more than it usually does and the weight of the ice caused the level of the water to rise dangerously. The president’s measures include provisions for strengthening dykes and levees, particularly in the industrial canals, to make provisions for evacuations if necessary, and to train special military units to respond in case of a disaster.

I write about the river because in the two most recent books I’ve read, characters have spoken about rivers, waters, and the steps people take to hold them back. They also both spoke of the futility of these actions. The following are little excerpts.

First, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pitman by Earnest J. Gaines, speaking about a flood in Louisiana in 1927:

Now he’s built concrete spillways to control the water. But, one day the water will break down those spillways just like it broke through the levee. The Frenchman was long dead when the water broke the levee in ’27, and these that built the spillways will be long dead, too, but the water will never die. The water the Indians used to believe in will run fee again. You just wait and see.

Second, The Hungry Tide by Amitave Ghosh speaking about the tide lands in India near the Bay of Bengal.

“My friend, not only could I happen again—it will happen again. A storm will come, the waters will rise, and the badh (levees) will succumb, in part or in whole. It is only a matter of time.”
“How do you know, Saar?” he said quietly.
“Look at it my friend, look at the badh. See how frail it is, how fragile. Look at the waters that flow past it and how limitless they are, how patient, how quietly they bide their time. Just to look at it is to know why the waters must prevail, later, if now sooner…Now ask yourself: how long can this frail fence last against these monstrous appetites-the crabs, the tides, the winds, and the storms? And, if it falls, who shall we turn to then comrade?”
“Who, Saar?”
“Who indeed, Fokir? Neither angels nor men will hear us, and as for the animals, they won’t hear us either.”
“Why not, Saar?”
“Because of what the poet says, Fokir. Because the animals “already know by instinct/we’re not comfortably at home/in our translated world.”

The Ama Dariya River used to be one of the feeders to the Aral Sea, but its course was diverted to irrigate cotton fields. The Aral Sea has receded by kilometers. I don’t really know where I am going with this, other than it raises questions about pride. We have done impossible things to control our world—roads, dams, and levees—but can we control it forever?

I hope the emergency measures keep the river at bay, but at the same time I am inclined to think that if the river wants its freedom, it won’t be held back. And, if anyone is inclined to be generous, send books. You can send them on tape/CDs if you check out books on tape from your local library (I think they still exist somewhere in America)!